Today was the day Howard ate his body weight in garlic. I will explain later.
We left our campsite just south of Seville, and headed east towards Cordoba. Our guide book suggested stop offs at two other Andalucian towns – Carmona and Ecija. The first, Carmona was only just over half an hours drive from Seville. It sits on a ridge overlooking farmland, and is touted as a mini-Seville, with a Roman remains, stately palaces and a substantial church. It is indeed a very good looking town, and as we drove towards it in the sunshine our spirits lifted. That was until ‘Natasha’, our posh sounding female Garmin satnav (named after Natasha Kaplinsky, the newsreader, because they sound similar), started to misbehave. Usually, she is the sensible one of the pair. ‘Boris’, our VW satnav that came with the van (posh sounding, useless and a bit of a baffoon – you know who he’s named after), is usually the one who takes us on a wild goose chase, but this morning it was Natasha who decided to have fun. So as we climbed up the tiny winding lanes towards the ‘Centro Historico’, the cobbled streets got narrower and narrower, and then hit a ninety degree turn which frankly looked impossible. Somehow, Howard kept his cool and managed to negotiate Oscar round the bend, and we found ourselves right in the middle of the central square, with all the locals looking at us. Undeterred, we parked up, slightly overhanging a doorway, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, and went and had a coffee in the sunshine. Our nerves only held out so long, however, before we dashed back to the van to check that it hadn’t  been clamped.
Moving on, we headed towards Ecija (pronounced E-th-y-ha), a town which the Lonely Planet told us is a hard-working Andalucian town which tourism has overlooked. What a gem this place turned out to be! The architecture of the town stunning, with several churches with spectacular towers, narrow cobbled passageways, tiled exteriors, orange trees in fruit at every turn and pretty geranium-filled pots on window-ledges – a real picture. The piece de resistance was a gorgeous central plaza, filled with cafes, playing children and a general meeting place for the town. Being a Sunday, the churches had just emptied, and families seemed to step out of church into the open air cafes for their Sunday lunches of tapas. Not wanting to feel left out, we sat down at one cafe in the corner of the square and asked for the menu. The only problem being, was that our waiter didn’t speak English, and the menu was obviously in Spanish. Having exhausted the data allowances on our phones, and unable to access WiFI, we then proceeded to order ‘pot-luck’ tapas. We randomly pointed to things on the menu, and awaited with interest. The first thing that came was garlic soaked artichokes – quite pleasant. The next Calamari, which Howard ate. Then a large plate appeared with an entire roasted garlic bulb and more, interspersed with a few bones, possibly chicken. The whole dish was swimming in garlic butter. The smell of garlic was so pungent that I smelt it coming. Heroically, Howard started eating. Only a third of the way through, and two more dishes appeared, some sort of garlic chicken kebabs, again dripping in garlic oil. Deciding that I may as well join in this garlic fest I ate some of the kebabs. The entire bill for the lunch, including drinks, was 11 euros. A bargain, even if I did have to tolerate the pungent stench of Howard all the way to Cordoba. Was are now sat in a hotel lounge drinking, wait for it – Caorrun and Hendricks! I may never leave, but Howard wants to explore the old town and go for supper, so I may have to be dragged from my seat. Tomorrow we explore Cordoba. Before then, we may need to swot up on Spanish tapas translations!

So for the first time this trip we set the alarm clock, in order that we could catch the first bus into Seville from our campsite. As we set off, we followed a steady flow of people walking to the bus-stop, and whilst waiting for the bus to arrive we got chatting to a couple from Denmark. We told them that we would be up in Denmark in May to catch the ferry to Iceland, and they gave us several good tips of places to visit.
The bus trip into the city took no time at all, since the bus driver must have been a former Formula One driver. He certainly made our Scottish buses seem very sedate.
As we approached the city centre, the bus travelled along a gorgeous wide stately road, similar to the Mall in London, but lined it’s full length with orange trees, heavily laden with fruit on all their branches. It dropped us off by an elegant park, very close to the Cathedral. After stopping for coffee and breakfast, we headed straight for one of Seville’s star attractions – the Alcazar. It is truly the most stunning piece of architecture you can imagine. It was originally started in 913 as a fort, but has been reconstructed and expanded many times over the centuries, by both Muslim and later Christian rulers. It now consists of a series of palaces, courtyards and quite splendid formal gardens, the architecture showing strong influences from the era ruled by the Moors. The gardens are just beautiful, forming a series of rooms, linked by wonderful archways and topiary hedges, not so dissimilar to Sissinghurst Gardens in Kent, but on a much grander scale. At every turn, another vista comes into view – a fountain, a brightly coloured tiled bench, a glimpse of a courtyard beyond. Inside there a beautiful tiled floors, tapestry lined walls and intricate carving on the stonework, often showing characteristic Muslim patterns. The whole thing was a feast for the eyes, and we ended up spending several hours just wandering around, taking it all in.
Needless to say, Howard often wandered off whilst I was taking photos, but no fear that I lose him now – he has become quite easy to pick out in a crowd. Yes, you guessed it – he wore his new hat!
Eventually we dragged ourselves away and took a look around more of the city. Seville’s cathedral is the largest in Europe, or at least, the biggest by volume. Sadly, we didn’t leave ourselves enough time to warrant the queue to look inside, but just walking around the periphery gave us a sense of it’s scale. We then took a meander through the streets and alleyways of Seville. It appeared that every local was sitting outside a cafe eating or drinking – clearly Saturday afternoons are a very social affair in Seville. Not wanting to miss out, we ventured down to the river, picked a restaurant with a terrace looking across the water, and sat and had a late lunch of Tapas. Whilst waiting for our order, Howard critically appraised the rowers – eights, single-scullers, and double-scullers out for their afternoon training session. I must say, even I thought they were a tadge relaxed in their stroke rate, but Howard thought they were being taught technique over pace. Both of us would have loved to have joined them, and certainly the rowing conditions looked much calmer than on the Tay.
We were so late leaving the restaurant, we ended up having to grab a taxi back to our bus stop, for fear of missing the last sensible bus back to the campsite. At the bus stop, who should we meet once more, but the couple from Denmark we had met earlier in the day. We chatted on the journey home, and it turns out, that like ourselves, they are VW California owners. They had spotted us driving into the campsite the night before, and being he only Californias on site (the rest being ‘Great Whites’), we formed an instant bond. They were heading off to Portugal next, so we donated them our two Portugal guidebooks (frankly saving us the postage home), and in return, we now have an invite

to stay in Denmark, when we drive up in May to catch our ferry to Iceland.
We were both really impressed with Seville, and could easily have spend several days longer exploring this beautiful city, but we are heading to Cordoba in the morning to pick up a dongle (I’ll explain in due course). Howard, meanwhile, still thinks he looks good in his new hat!

A fairly quiet day on the blog front, since today we did the longish journey from the Western Algarve, back into Spain, veering away from the coast and across to Seville. So, after breakfast in the sun (the first outing for our table and chairs), we left our lovely spot amongst the trees on a terrace looking towards the coast, and set off once more. En route, we had our final stop in Portugal, at a lovely town called Silves, just inland from Portimao. Silves sits on the River Arade, with it’s winding streets leading up to a stunning castle and Gothic cathedral. Down by the river, there are pleasant cafes and restaurants, and that is where we chose to sit and have our coffee. We had only been sat outside less than ten minutes, when Howard and I started to huff and puff, as the temperature slowly rose in the searing sun, and we had to move to a table in the shade. We later recorded 22 degrees in the car, and we were baking. Clearly we have been living too long in Scotland. Heaven knows how we will deal with the heat in Italy.
In a move to help with his temperature intolerance, on the way back to the car, Howard stopped at a shop selling hats – cork hats. He tried a couple on, and declared that this was just what he needed. He seemed very pleased with his purchase, although, if truth be known – it is not a great look! In fact, he looks positively ridiculous, a sort of cork bedecked version of John Wayne. The only positive thing is that it is making me smile, a lot. He then went on to say, that by the time we get to Iceland, he will be the only one wearing a cork hat. Yes, Howard, I’m pretty certain you’re spot on there!
The journey was uneventful, mainly on the motorway, with just a short delay because of roadworks. We did laugh as we crossed the border into Spain crossing a bridge over a river. The motorway surface Portugal side was as smooth as a pancake, as was the motorway surface as soon as the Spain sign appeared. The bridge, however, a sort of no-man’s land, was exceedingly bumpy and pot-holed – clearly no-one was taken responsibility for surfacing this bit of road.
We’re now in a mediocre campsite just a few miles south of Seville. No matter. Tomorrow we will take the bus into the city, so will only be here long enough to sleep, before heading on to Cordoba the following day. Howard is taking a walk whilst I write the blog. There’s no sign of his hat in the van, so no doubt he’s causing a stir with our new neighbours!

We managed a reasonably early start, and Howard even completed his first run of the trip before breakfast. The showers, however, were a dribble, and I was back to my limbo dancing to avoid getting everything wet.
We set off a few miles westwards to the little town of Sagres, with it’s huge clifftop fort, then further west to Capo de Sao Vincente (Cape Vincent), the south westernmost point of Europe. Here the cliffs are stunning, with the waves crashing hundreds of feet below, some periodically billowing up as they rebound back out of a sea cave. Cape Vincent is renowned for it’s variety of birdlife, two hundred species reported around the cliffs and the gorse scrubland that abuts them. At the far end of the promontory is an attractive red and white lighthouse, and just along from here we spotted several deep sea anglers precariously balancing their rods over the steep cliffs, hoping for a catch of sea bream or sea bass. Rather a death-defying hobby, and certainly requiring plenty of balance.
We did manage to spot a very unusual looking bird in the binoculars, and when we looked it up on our return, we discovered it was a black redstart, a thrush sized bird with a black back, and red on it’s rump and tail. So the binoculars now pass the three month rule and gain a reprieve!
Next we headed on to Lagos, or at least to it’s outskirts. Driving in we hit a traffic jam, on an otherwise quiet road. We sat for at least ten minutes not moving. When we did eventually get going again, it turned out to be a solitary traffic policeman, who had chosen to stop all the traffic on our main road to allow a trickle of cars out of a side road. Complete nonsense!
As we approached Lagos (which looked ghastly, with rows of hotels and holiday apartments – apologies to anyone who likes Lagos), we veered off to Ponta da Piedade, a stunning spot on the coast, with wonderful red sandstone rock formations, forming arches, sea caves and strange shaped pinnacles. We walked down some steep steps to the sea, and were encouraged to take a boat trip out to explore these structures at close quarters. Frankly, we didn’t need any persuading, since we were needing our weekly fix of boating. When we had stood up on the clifftops earlier, we had observed some of these boats, most of them larger vessels, taking maybe twelve tourists at a time. When our boat arrived, it was tiny, maybe half the length of a coastal skiff, with a small outboard motor, and a jolly captain. We leapt onboard (and I do mean leapt – from the small stone jetty in the rocks into this bobbing vessel), and were thankfully then adorned in life jackets. By now there was quite a swell up, and we could hear the tourists on the other larger boats shrieking with delight as their boats ducked and dived around the rock formations, through arches into sea caves and out again. Our skipper proved to be the most dare-devil of them all. At one point as we swung towards a tiny arch into a sea cave, Howard reassured me that none of the other boats had attempted to enter this one. But literally as he spoke these words, our skipper jolted the tiller, and we rode a wave through the tiny entrance, necessitating us to duck as we went through! ‘OK’, said Howard, ‘He’s doing a Ralph!’. The skiffies amongst you reading this blog will understand our meaning, if not, then safe to say, it was a very tricky manoeuvre, skillfully executed by someone resembling a Master Mariner! By now, I was actually clinging onto Howard’s leg. It was clear, however, that this was just part of the show, and we continued to weave our way around the rocks for another half hour, before being submitted to the ‘leap ashore’ manoeuvre, a disembarkation not dissimilar to the initial acrobatics of jumping aboard.
We felt both exhilarated and relieved as we climbed the steps back up to Oscar. Strangely, another couple who had been waiting for a similar trip had vanished by the time we returned to the jetty.
We then wound our way back to the campsite, stopping off at Salema beach for a wander and a drink. Apparently, we read later, there are dinosaur tracks visible in the rocks at low tide that were left 125 million years ago, but the tide was up, and indeed a huge wave caught us out, and soaked both of our feet as we walked along the shoreline.
So we are now back at the campsite, drying out our trainers and drinking Prosecco. We chose not to return to our pitch from last night, instead picking a spot higher up the wooded site, well away from the snoring German!

The day started with Mick Jagger and ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ in the shower. I strongly suspect that there was some air guitar being played in the men’s cubicles!
We left our cork tree grove and our friendly Dutch campsite owners and headed south. We were aiming for the far south western tip of Portugal on the Algarve. We decided to cut across country, taking a route through the Serra da Monchique, a mountainous area abound with fir plantations and mimosa. The views as we climbed higher into the mountains became more spectacular, along narrow twisting roads with panoramas at every turn, sometimes getting tantalising glimpses of the glistening Algarve coast in the distance. We chose to have our morning coffee in Monchique itself, a charming hillside town

with a pleasant square with cafes and bars. Walking up one of the narrow streets we came across a Cork shop, selling only items made from cork – bags, purses, shoes, mats and even bottles. I purchased a glasses case and a cork postcard, the latter of which I will stick inside Oscar for decoration. I even managed to find some ‘Oscar’ wine in the local hypermarket.
Next we drove onto a town called Aljezur, another hilltop community, with a 12th century ruined fort at it’s summit. We climbed up to the fort, and then stopped for a drink by the river which ran along the town’s lower boundary. We then took the road that headed along the coast to our campsite. We came across a turning to Carrapateira, which we guessed must head down to the sea itself. What a spectacular spot – a headland looking out over a sweeping sandy bay with Atlantic waves crashing onto the shore. This was clearly a surfer’s beach, and as the sun came low in the sky, we spotted several surf boards riding the waves. This was the wild rugged coastline that we had read about on the Western Algarve, largely unspoilt by tourism, with just small surfer’s shack on the beach. Despite it being situated about two miles down a narrow track, it was clearly a popular spot with campervaner’s, since there were several parked up here, presumably wild camping for the night.
We headed on to our campsite for the night, a terraced site, set amongst pine trees. There is a lively looking restaurant here, so we plan to open a bottle of Prosecco and eat out tonight – to cerebrate Valentine’s Night, of course. The only one problem is that the German in the pitch next to us came out of his caravan to inform us that he is ‘a snorer’ – so maybe not such a romantic evening, after all!

Some days just start better than others – today was one of them. I set off to the wash block for my morning shower, and couldn’t believe what greeted me. A shower cubicle so huge, with an adjoining dressing area so big, that the entire dressing area floor stayed as dry as a bone, negating the need to do strange limbo movements to avoid getting your clothes wet as you dress afterwards. What’s more – and this is the best thing, by far – there was piped sixties music playing! Wonderful tunes like ‘Sugar Baby Love’ by the Rubettes, ‘Times they are a Changing’ by Bob Dylan and ‘Baby Love’ by Diana Ross and the Supremes. It was impossible not to start dancing along to the music as you showered. Then, as I turned my shower off and started dressing, I heard the tone deaf tones of Howard, singing away in the adjoining men’s showers. I did challenge him as we chatted over breakfast, and he did admit to dancing too!
I have noticed, though, a certain dress code that is becoming a familiar site at many of the campsites. The men, in particular, when they go for a shower, seem the need to dress up in the most ridiculous looking dressing gowns and plastic slip-on shoes. Most of them are balding, and past their sell by dates, and I can honestly say that it is not a good look. I have banned Howard from even considering purchasing a gown.
Oscar stayed at the campsite today whilst we went off hiking. The campsite owner had told us of a good walk, along the River Mira, then up to the highest point point in the surrounding hills, and then back again. He showed us a map, and Howard took a photo of the route on his phone. It started well, the sun was shining, and we felt optimistic. We quickly realised, however, that trying to read a map from a mobile phone is not that easy. We knew that some point we had to cross the river, but it was not clear exactly where. The path suddenly petered out, and Howard went searching through the undergrowth for a way through. On his return five minutes later, he had lost one of the walking poles strapped to the rucksack. Another twenty minutes later, once Howard had eventually retrieved the pole, we set off again and managed to ford our way across. Initially following the path along the river bank was straightforward, and we delighted in all the birdlife we were spotting, including glimpsing a kingfisher diving into the water. But then the path fizzled out again, and we ended up climbing up a steep bank to try to find the route. At one point, Howard produced his Garmin from his pocket, and I started to become concerned. At the same moment he announced, and I quote, ‘A walk is a walk, you don’t necessarily choose the shortest distance between two points’. I knew for certain then that we were indeed lost! Eventually we climbed up to a high look out and spied the masts on the top of an adjoining hill, and managed to get back on track. The whole route meandered through groves of cork trees, many with their lower trunk a reddish brown and bare, from where they had been harvested for cork. The campsite owner told us that this is done every eight years, and that in that time, the cork slowly regrows on the trunk.
By the time we arrived back at the campsite, I was hot and exhausted. I will definitely deserve my drink tonight. The moral of the story is, never trust a man with a Garmin!
The bell for evening drinks has just been rung, so really it would be rude not to join in!

We left Lisbon this morning in gorgeous sunshine. Somehow, you always have a good feeling about a place if you leave it at it’s best, and as we crossed the huge suspension bridge over the Rio Tejo, and looked back over Belem, and the Monasteiro de Jeronimas gleaming in the sunlight, and we felt warm glow towards this city.
We headed south, initially to a place called Setubal, or to be precise, an obscure location just east of Setubal on the Rio Sado estuary. I had read in the Lonely Planet of a nature reserve called Moinho da Mourisca, renowned for it’s bird life. Remarkably, as we drove towards the coast, we spied a sign for it, and followed the track for a couple of miles down to the mud flats. Initially, my spirits rose when I also saw a coffee shop sign, and a charming looking white buildings with tables and chairs outside, but sadly the excitement was short-lived, as it was closed weekdays, as were the bird hides. Not deterred, we made a coffee in Oscar, Howard finishing the last of the sugary pastries left from our trip to Aviero. We then had a really pleasant hour wandering around the raised grassy paths between the lagoons, trying to spot some wildlife. I managed to snap a few waders and a grebe, justifying the inclusion of my telephoto lens in our luggage. Howard had been most insistent that any item unused after three months was going to be thrown out, so I was relieved that my very expensive lens has earned it’s reprieve. I just now need to find a use for the tripod!
On our walk we came across a grove of cork trees, which we were soon to discover are all over this area of Portugal. Driving on further south, we saw mile after mile of cork tree plantations, as well as a profusion of nesting storks. On one electricity pylon at the side of the road, we counted twelve storks nests on the various levels of the structure, with occupants in each.
I commented to Howard as we drove south that I was feeling too hot. By now, I had shed my Icebreaker top and fleece, and was wearing only a T-shirt. The temperature in the van read 17 degrees. I was told in no uncertain terms that mid February was too early to have the air conditioning on, and whatever was I going to be like in Sicily a month or two later?
The campsite we were heading for was near to a town called Ourique, and as we approached the outskirts we saw a sign for a mirador or viewpoint. So we wound our way up the steep cobbled lane to investigate. At the top was the most charming terraced garden and viewpoint looking out over the hills. Following the lane down, on the next level was an absolutely gorgeous little square, with a blue and white church at one end. The only sound audible was birdsong, and it was quite a contrast from the bustling city that we had left just that morning.
We eventually found our tiny rural campsite a few miles down the road. The new Dutch owners had only taken over the running of the site two weeks previously, but they had clearly bagged themselves a gem. The terraced site sits looking out over hills in a grove of cork and Holm oak trees, the facilities are spotless and the views splendid. Despite their short time as owners, they are by far the busiest site we have stayed in to date, with most of the pitches taken. They told us later, over our complimentary welcome drink, that three of the motorhomes arrived the first day that they opened, and have been here ever since. I’m sure the warmth and hospitality of the hosts definitely adds to the charm of this place, so I think for the next two nights we will be very happy here.
Tomorrow Howard has hill walking on the agenda. I may have to break into my Caorunn to recover!

Last night we ate out at a Portugese restaurant just round the corner from our hotel – it had been recommended by the concierge. It was very busy with locals, always a good sign, and Howard and I ordered some fish and a sort of burger but without the bun. As the meal progressed, we noticed that virtually everyone else sat around us was eating this strange looking dish topped with a fried egg. It transpired that this local’s dish of choice was something called a ‘Top’ – a sausage from Porto, steak, cheese, ham, mortadella, fried egg and french fries, or as Howard referred to it, a ‘coronary on a plate’. Clearly everyone was enjoying it, but crumbs, the fat content doesn’t bear thinking about!
We realised this morning that the square footage of our bed last night was approximately four times the size of our living area in Oscar. So huge in fact was our bed, that we were rather overwhelmed by the space. It is extraordinary how quickly Howard and I have adapted to our ‘Hobbit-like’ existence in the van.
After breakfast, we set off for a suburb of Lisbon called Belem. Originally we had planned to catch a boat, but since we would have had to hang around for an hour before the next one, we opted to take the local tram instead. Trams are a big thing in Lisbon, and unlike the Edinburgh ones, they seem to be well used and to go to useful places.
The star attraction of Belem is the Monasteiro dos Jeronimas, which dates back to 1502. At the time, Vasco de Gamo had just discovered a trading route to India, and the profit made from selling spices helped to contribute to the construction costs. As we stepped off the tram, the queue for the monastery was immense. Not being great ones for queues, we went off to explore the tropical Botanic Gardens instead, which hosts a profusion of birdlife. The only people we saw there were British. Spring was definitely in the air this morning – cocks were crowing at their hens, Muskovy ducks were doing it, and a pair of peacocks were making a right exhibition of themselves. I had always thought that the male peacocks displayed the colourful iridescent feathers at their women, but not this pair. They strutted around with their feathers fanned out, but as they both approached this very nonchalant female peahen, they suddenly turned tail, and wiggled their bottoms at her. Well, she was having none of it – she barely looked up from her grazing, whilst the two men made themselves look like right Charlies, twerking at the lady!
Next we ventured up the observation tower on the seafront. It looks out over the marina, the monastery, and also a tiled map of the world decorating the square below. This happily filled half an hour, by which time the queue for the monastery had subsided (so long, it transpired, because locals gain free access on a Sunday morning). It was well worth the wait. The cloisters were stunning, on two storeys, around a central garden. The stairs climbing up to the second storey were made of white granite, made shiny and worn away from centuries of wear. You could just imagine the monks processing up these stairs all that time ago. I was taken by the sheer numbers of tourists taking ‘selfies’ of themselves, striking various poses, paying little attention to this stunning environment. I do really think that this reflects a modern day narcissism, and I sometimes see a glint in Howard’s eyes – I fear he may develop a photo-bombing habit! It’s our last night in Lisbon, and I am planning another Hendrick’s. Tomorrow we are having a total contrast, and heading for the countryside again.

There’s nothing like a spring clean! We got up early and stripped the duvet and sheets, and headed off with all the laundry and our tokens to the washing machines. We ended up filling three! Luckily no-one else was doing their washing so early on a Saturday morning. After breakfast, whilst waiting on the tumble driers, we tidied up Oscar and cleaned the carpets. He’s now looking spanking new and gleaming again.
Mission accomplished, we set off to Lisbon. The drive was a relatively short hop, and we found our hotel effortlessly. Fortunately, just as we pulled up, a car drove out one of the five parking spaces reserved for guests outside the hotel. Bingo! No more underground nightmares for Oscar!
We quickly deposited our bags and set off to explore the city. This weekend in Portugal is Carnival weekend, and annual cerebration of giving up meat for lent. So as we walked out of our hotel, we heard the loud noises of drums, and a parade along the main Avenida da Liberdada leading into the city. This road is similar to the Champs-Elysees in Paris, but for today, they had closed it to traffic for the parade. So we wandered down into the city, admiring the gorgeous architecture, with many of the old houses painted yellow or blue, nearly all with beautiful wrought iron balustrades, and some with the now familiar tile facades.
First we headed for the waterfront, and enjoyed a very relaxing drink sat in the sunshine, watching the world go by. The cafe looked out over the huge Praca de Comercio, which claims to be Europe’s largest square, and adjoins the Rio Tejo. We then set off for the old town and Castelo de Saint Jorges.

It was a steep climb up, but after our recent series of munro bagging walks, we found this walk only a moderate exertion. We passed the cathedral, an excavation for Roman ruins, then made our way through the charming narrow cobbled streets up to the Castle. On the way back, Howard decided on a tortuous route back to the hotel, winding our way through the old city, and by the time we flopped back into our hotel room we were at the 20,000 step mark.
A nice hot bath and a Hendricks later (yes – our hotel has Hendricks!), I am feeling a whole lot better, and we are just off to sample an authentic Portuguese restaurant.
So far, we have found Lisbon quite superb. It is a charming city, with plenty of open spaces, elegant squares and beautiful buildings. What’s not to like?

Today was one of two halves. It started badly. It had rained heavily overnight, with that hard pitter patter sort of rain, that had made such a din on the roof of the pop-up that it had kept me awake. Then just as the rain had started to ease, an owl had planted itself in the tree immediately above our heads, and proceeded to tu-whit-tu-whoo for the next hour and a half. I had never before appreciated how loud an owl can be – very loud. To add to my misery, I had discovered just before I went to bed that I had managed to use up my entire quotient of data allowance for my phone for the month in just eight days – so I wasn’t very happy. I think a combination of frequently resorting to Google Maps when both our bickering satnavs can’t between them seem to be able to find the camp-site, and transferring photos off my phone to the blog, often using the phone as a hot-spot because the campsite WiFi’s are so hopeless, had completely eaten away my allowance. So within the space of half an hour, both my phone provider and our MiFi provider announced that we were stuffed, leaving just Howard’s phone with any resource. This had caused me great dismay, since I have been really enjoying catching up with all my friends on What’s App or via email. So needless to say, I woke up this morning in a bit of a grump, and to add insult to injury, it was still drizzling.
Not deterred, we changed our plans from going bike riding to visiting the UNESCO World Heritage town of Sintra, a few miles north of where we are staying. It sits on a steep hill rolling down to the Atlantic, and is famed for it’s Moorish Castle, palaces, huge mansions, and gardens thick with ferns and lichens. It was a famous haunt of Lord Byron, who even referred to it in one of his poems. Certainly is was very different from any other place we have seen yet in Portugal. It felt like a mix of Portmeirian, with it’s pastel coloured houses, and yet the gardens brought to mind a sub-tropical rain forest. Particularly so as the cloud was so low this morning, that we felt like we were climbing through it, as we marched the I km up the steeply wooded gardens to the 10th century Moorish castle. I felt that I certainly earned my cake this morning, although the local delicacy here is a type of small cheesecake, made from a marzipan like mix of cheese, sugar, cinnamon and flour, which neither Howard nor I particularly took to.
By the time we had climbed all the way back through the tropical gardens, the rain had stopped and the sky was starting to clear. We then headed back to Cascais, stopping at the shops on the way. In desperation, we purchased a local sim card valid for15 days which would operate a local hotspot. So at least we are back in contact, for the time being anyway.
By the time we arrived back at the campsite, the sun was shining, and we both felt considerably less cut-off from the outside world (and, as Howard was quick to point out, at least we might be able to catch ‘Call the Midwife’ on Sunday!). So felling much better about the world, we got the bikes off the back of Oscar, and went for a splendid cycle ride along the cycle path that leads from our campsite, and all along the coast road into Cascais. By now the sky was blue, and the Atlantic waves were crashing on the rocky shore. If I say so myself, I think I did a good job of keeping up with Howard, although some of you may know why that is! Save to say, the bikes functioned well, and mine is now waiting to be re-charged before it’s next outing.
Tomorrow we are off to Lisbon, and have opted for a hotel for a couple of nights. Hopefully though, we can find somewhere better to park Oscar than his last city adventure!